


Redamancy

by danqueray



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Break Up, Getting Together, LGBTQ Themes, Librarian!Phil, M/M, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-03
Updated: 2015-11-27
Packaged: 2018-04-29 18:10:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5137610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/danqueray/pseuds/danqueray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>redamancy (n.) - a love returned in full; the act of loving the one who loves you</p>
<p>Blue eyes and a hot caramel coffee, dusty books and an impulsive decision which could turn Dan Howell’s life on it’s head - he’s never been lucky, but perhaps his angel comes in the form of the ebony-haired librarian.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> New chaptered fic :O

Phil’s eyes join up the bubbles on his coffee, new constellations each time his breath swirls the froth in circles. It’s an unusually quiet Monday morning - arguably the worst day of the week for most, and Phil is certainly no exception. He’s sitting at the front desk, fingers tapping nonchalantly on the newly polished rosewood surface. His eyes shift focus from his coffee to the pile of books next to the old computer, worn out copies of “Sense and Sensibility” and “1984” in dire need of replacement. He sighs, the last of his caramel macchiato sliding down his throat, it’s sweet taste lingering on his lips and tongue. Phil hates Mondays, and usually finds himself flicking through pages of books he’s never read. He likes to think he’s read every book in the library, but he hasn’t - of course he hasn’t.  
It’s October and he’s never been more thankful for the small heater behind the desk, apparently the council doesn’t deem the old library worthy of a functioning heater, so they bought their own. It barely works, but it’s enough; besides Phil’s wearing more than enough layers to compensate, although he wonders if he’ll have to buy another heater for the Winter.

The chorus of babbling toddlers do nothing for the headache which appears around midday, and their mothers seem to be completely oblivious; giggling amongst each other as if it’s some kind of bustling café. He curses under his breath, and with a flick of his wrist he knocks over his periwinkle blue mug filled to the brim with yet another caramel macchiato. He’s more than thankful when the liquid trickles everywhere except from the books on the counter, turning his papers a pale mocha, with streaks of ebony cascading down the pages, contrasting from the bright daisy they once were; he decides they weren’t important anyway, and promptly throws them in the bin, along with coffee-stained paper towels. It seems like an eternity before he leaves, hours of staring at the clock making his eyes hurt every time they move. The air is cold, and he feels bad when he kicks a small pile of auburn and amber leaves, tumbling around him like confetti. His hands are slipped in the pockets of his coat, in an attempt to retain some warmth. He feels childish, watching his breath swirl in the air as a grin tugs at his lips. It isn’t usual that he decides to walk home, but he decides his pounding head wouldn’t appreciate having to stand on a bus for any length of time; besides he could do with some fresh air, the library is extremely stuffy.

He stops at the shops to get some milk and bread. It’s six-twenty-four by the time he gets home, but surprisingly he’s not hungry, considering he’d been surviving on coffee and dry biscuits - which were probably considerably out of date - all day. His flat is cold, and it seems he’s been unable to escape the chill all day. His heating didn’t tick on at four, and he suspects it’s broken, or an alien came in as he was working and turned it off, but the latter seems highly unlikely - even for Phil.

Tuesdays. They’re definitely not as bad as Mondays, perhaps since it’s an inch closer to the weekend, but Phil can’t help that dread in the pit of his stomach as he stares out of the scratched window. He managed to get a seat today, although the lingering grey skies and slight drizzle don’t provide much of a view. He wonders how he can see at all with the steam and graffiti etched in, clouding up the window. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, he rarely wears them but today he fancied a change (and he thought that perhaps trying to put in contacts half asleep wasn’t such a good idea).  
Phil gets strange looks when he walks in, probably due to his glasses. He slightly regrets wearing them after the third person compliments him; he’s never been one for interaction. The morning is managed without any spilled coffee, he realises those papers were more important than he originally thought, and that throwing them out perhaps wasn’t his brightest idea. Lunchtime rolls around and the pleasant smell of petrichor fills the atmosphere. He’s sitting on a slightly damp bench, not too damp that it’d stain his jeans but enough so he can feel the cold. He chooses a pumpkin spice latte, deciding that perhaps he might have a slight obsession with caramel macchiatos after his fourth one that day. Tuesdays aren’t as dreary as Mondays, perhaps it’s because he’s not sat behind the desk all day, instead placing books in the correct places, skimming through more often than not.

Wednesdays are definitely his favourite. Afternoons spent reading to children, whose parents decided that nursery was far too expensive and that the nineteen-year-old librarian would have to suffice, but Phil didn’t mind it. Most of the time he’d read “The Very Hungry Caterpillar” or books similar, but occasionally he’d read his own stories; he’s always wanted to be an author, although he’s always been too scared.

Thursdays are insignificant, and Phil feels sorry in a way that Thursdays don’t evoke some emotion in him like the other days. There’s nothing special about Thursdays, and soon enough they drift into Friday where he watches the clock, each second ticking by, each second that bit closer to Saturday. Phil stays at home on Friday evenings, preferring to sit on the sofa with a hot chocolate and watch a movie than to go to parties. Most of his free time is spent writing, in an old journal or on his laptop, both holding hidden secrets which he’d never show.

Phil decides this particular Saturday he needs to get out of the flat. His eyes are sore from spending hours at the computer, and the purple shadows which are skidded under them do nothing but enhance the crimson lines woven around his crystal blue pupils. He walks into WH Smith, scanning the shelves for a new pack of colouring pencils - he’s all out. His eyes narrow on an “adult colouring book”, and after a few seconds of debating whether or not he should pick one up, he does, deciding that it can’t be that bad - perhaps even therapeutic. He skips a caramel macchiato today, in fact he skips coffee altogether, instead sitting at a picnic table under the amber trees, leaves cascading around him as he enjoys the time alone. Phil Lester doesn’t hate interaction, he hates the constant nagging in his head that he’ll say or do something wrong, the fear that he’ll be judged.  
It’s dark by the time he gets home, five-thirty-two and he’s picking at his dinner, mind cast in an entirely different world. He carries himself in the dimly lit lounge at six, fairy lights hanging from every possible surface. It takes a while for his computer to start, fingers tapping out words about quaint coffee shops and the love he’s never had.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> redamancy (n.) - a love returned in full; the act of loving the one who loves you 
> 
> Blue eyes and a hot caramel coffee, dusty books and an impulsive decision which could turn Dan Howell's life on it's head - he's never been lucky, but perhaps his angel comes in the form of the ebony-haired librarian.

He shouldn't have turned up, and when his eyes land on his boyfriend's lips on someone else's, hands tugging on golden locks and dirty nothings whispered in each other's ears, his stomach drops and he runs. It isn't late, but the chill of the Autumn air pricks his nose and cheeks and he can't stand it. Dan Howell hates autumn, the ostentatious coffee shops and fairy lights, like some pretentious tumblr blog. He doesn't understand why tears are collecting on his lashes, trickling down his cheeks leaving cool trails - he knew they wouldn't last, it wasn't _really_ love. He finds himself pushing the wooden door, into the old library. The scent envelops him and he can't say it isn't comforting, old books, wooden desks, and warmth. Although it only bears a small heater, it's considerably warmer than outside and Dan's never been more thankful. He sits down, after grabbing a piece of plain paper from the front desk and a pen, and writes. It's seven-twenty-six when the librarian taps him on the shoulder, apologising that he needs to close up soon.

Phil's eyes trail to page on the rosewood table, mind urging him not to look but he can't stop himself; before he can process anything else he's scanning the paper, eyebrows furrowing at the trails of sapphire ink swirled in the form of profanities and poetry. It's at seven-thirty the boy knocks on the door, apologising that he's left his paper, and Phil can't help the pang in his chest as the tears trickle down his soft face, deep chestnut eyes tainted crimson.

"I know it's none of my business," Phil starts, closing the door behind the shivering boy - seemingly not much younger than himself, "but are you alright?" The boy just nods, grabbing the daisy-white page and turning to the door. "You're talented." Phil blurts out, hand snapping to his mouth a hair too late.

"You read it?" Dan doesn't raise his voice, instead, what appears to be a slight smile tugs at the corners his chapped lips. Phil simply nods, fearing he'd already said too much. They sat down, Phil pulling out an old wooden chair for the boy to sit on; almost bejewelled with once bright but now faded crimsons, sapphires and emeralds. It's not particularly comfortable - the wood digging in his thighs - he doesn't care as the words tumble out of his mouth, tears cascading down his soft cheeks and it takes _every_ _part_ of Phil not to reach over and wipe them. Dan's thankful, thankful to have someone to pour his heart out to, and sometimes strangers are the least judgemental. Friends would act sincere, but from Dan's experience they hardly ever were, although the glint in the raven-haired librarian's eye tells Dan that he means every smile and simple touch.

"He sounds manipulative if I'm honest, although I can't say I have much experience." Phil chuckles slightly. He learns the boy's name, and each time it rolls off of his tongue a smile tugs at his lips; it's so innocent - ingenuous of the world's harshness. Dan's fingers lambent over the books on the shelf, watching Phil place script after script in their correct place.

"It's getting late," Dan starts, and he really doesn't want to leave. "You should probably get going home?" His statement turns into a question, to which Phil replies with a shake of his head.

"Not unless you do, it's nice to have someone to talk to about something other than books, I understand if you want to get going though." Phil brushes the dust off the last book and places it on the shelf.

The walk to the park is short, and the air is considerably cooler than it had been previously. Phil offers Dan his coat, who politely declines, although he silently wishes he'd have taken him up on his offer.

"Stars are gorgeous tonight." Dan mumbles, whispering a _"thank you"_ as Phil wraps his knitted auburn scarf around Dan's neck.

"Indeed they are." Phil nods as he leans back into the bench. The trees provide little protection from the howling wind, and the street lights cast an amber glow over the park, everything baring an orange hue. They're sitting perhaps too close, especially as they've just met; their shoulder's are just touching and knees brush as they shake up and down for warmth, but it's nothing less than comfortable.

"I never want to fall in love again." It's a mumble, but Phil can hear each syllable raw with anger and fear, sadness and regret. _"Not everyone's like that,"_ dancing on the tip of his tongue, and thoughts cast to giving Dan's now ex-boyfriend a lesson or two; but Phil simply stares at the stars, eyes occasionally flicking to Dan's face, half-hidden amongst the shadows. They have a lot in common, and Dan decides although the library isn't his first port of call, he could sacrifice a few hours if it meant seeing Phil again.

It's nine-forty-two by the time Dan's mother calls, asking where he'd been, and it's then when Phil knows he should let the boy go. They exchange numbers, and Lester seems fitting for Phil, blue eyes and a comforting smile swirling in Dan's mind as he reads his name over and over again on the shivering walk home.   
Dan had almost forgotten about the party, but is quickly reminded when he logs onto his computer and checks his feed, although nothing appears surrounding Adam. He sends a short text, simply _"it's over"_ before huffing and sipping his cup of coffee - perhaps not the wisest of choices at eleven, but certainly not the worst by any stretch of the imagination. Dan has always been fond of the night, the stars, the darkness; often staying up until the sun peaks behind the trees and the birds begin to sing. He declines a multitude of calls and ignores twice as many messages before deciding to turn his phone off, and that Halo is a far better use of his time. At one his eyes struggle to stay open, and it's then he realises that he should catch up on some much needed sleep. Dreams clouded with raven ink against an ivory page, cerulean crystals and every poem he'd never had the courage to write.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed it!! feedback is always lovely :3


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> redamancy (n.) - a love returned in full; the act of loving the one who loves you
> 
> Blue eyes and a hot caramel coffee, dusty books and an impulsive decision which could turn Dan Howell's life on it's head - he's never been lucky, but perhaps his angel comes in the form of the ebony-haired librarian.

Dan's eyes flutter open, only to immediately close as the sting of the light hits reaches them. They settle on his phone after he wills them open, twelve-thirty-six. It's a feat he reckons, waking up before two, and even more so when he swings his legs over the side of his bed. He carries himself downstairs, almost stumbling on the carpeted stairs before clutching onto the handrail. His stomach growls and hands shake, but food isn't his priority - it's the throb of his head and ache in his chest. His fingers flutter over the rushed note his mother wrote,  barely able to decipher her writing. A sigh escapes his lips as he pours himself a glass of water, Adam clouding his thoughts, and _Phil_. His smile tattooed on every corner of Dan's mind, eyes woven in every glistening blue and euphonious voice wrapped in each melody in his head.

::

Phil decides his apartment is much warmer than outside, although he still hasn't called his heating company and he doubts he will until winter. He's always been too scared to light the fire - a toy flame sat on the logs gathering dust - but he's got a mint green mug in his hand and a cream sweater covering his nuckles. The coffee slides down his throat as he takes a sip of his latte, eyes scanning the paper for any relevent news to a nineteen-year-old librarian, and after deciding there isn't any, he turns on the TV and lets it drown out some of the silence. His phone is close by, mind preoccupied with Dan to even consider changing the channel from christmas cooking shows - he's always said October is far too early.

October soon drifts into November and Phil's used to the shy eighteen-year-old who bolts into the library at five, often staying long after Phil ends his shift. Phil can't help but notice the way his eyes light up, symphonies erupting from his lips in the form of laughter as Phil knocks a pile of books on the floor. Dan helps him, a blush painted on his cheeks and a smile tugging at his lips as their hands brush, a murmured apology cutting the air. Phil invites Dan over one dreary Saturday, the rain pelts at the windows in an unforgiving shower and the wind can be heard above their strong laughter and through a thick blanket draped over their heads as they watch a movie - although neither are _entirely_ focussed on what's playing on Phil's computer.

"D-Dan," Phil begins, and unbeknownst to Dan his tongue is tied and thoughts are racing. "It's late, and you _really_ shouldn't be walking home in this weather." He fiddles with his thumbs, and somehow the nineteen-year-old seems innocent, bashful even. "And it does get lonely." He adds quietly, barely above a faint whisper.

"I'll stay then, I'll need a hot chocolate as compensation though." Dan replies with a smug grin on his chapped lips. The brontide of distant thunder rings in their ears, an almost too-relaxed daze looming over the two teenagers. Dan's sat between the elder's legs, back flushed to Phil's chest as his head's tilted back - smiles never faltering and giggles bounding off the cream walls. Phil's arms are wrapped around Dan's waist, and it's at that moment Dan's eyes start to flutter shut and his head droops. It's a gentle nudge from the subdude librarian at eleven-forty-nine which wakes Dan, head buried in the crook of his neck and arms clutching him tight as he's carried into Phil's room before he's tucked in - a gentle huff before drifting into a peaceful slumber.

They don't speak of the nights with matted fairy lights in the form of constellations above their heads, nor the way Dan would almost subconciously repeat each word scrawled in ebony ink on Phil's bedroom walls in a monotonus - yet intrigued - tone. Dan comes to learn that Phil's eyes don't resemble the ocean, instead they're galaxies of blue and green and yellow, mixed together and painted on a bright canvas. To Phil, Dan's eyes are the colour of amber leaves and hot coffee against cold lips, fingers precariously holding knotted leaves and twirling ivory threads.   
It's not so much the fact that Phil's fingers are warmer than Dan's - nor the fact that his hands are slightly larger - but on a day in the middle of November neither can seem to untangle them. Dan kicks a rock on the ground, watching as it tumbles forward before halting. His other hand is in his pocket, and despite not retaining much warmth it's comforting in the chilly air. Phil makes a mental note of Dan's proud accusation that every bookstore and coffee shop is nothing but pretentious, but he doesn't mind as long as it's with Phil (although that's mumbled in a short whisper).

Phil sits at his desk, Dan playing with a string of mustard wool, fingers absentmindedly twirling it around as his eyes gaze to Phil.   
It's two-am and an intoxicated string of words tumble out of Dan's lips, smoke leaving his lips in ivory curls, spiralling into complete nothingness as they fade into the night. Dan's leaning into Phil, head rested on his shoulder as his fingers count the stars and mind counts the times the sapphire-laced words _Phil Lester_ slip into his thoughts. Phil thinks of scarlet and crimson, burning flames and _Dan_ , and although they're side-by-side they couldn't be further apart.

It's the middle of November and Phil knows the way Dan counts his steps, the way he can only fall asleep with his feet poking out of the covers, the way he likes his coffee - _two teaspoons of sugar and make sure it's decaffeinated_. Phil knows Dan like the back of his hand, lips and fingers having traced every inch of him under Orion and fallen leaves, yet Phil yearns for more. To feel Dan's lips glide across his neck, to feel his fingers brush his chest and hold his hips; for Dan to trust him like he trusts Dan.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> redamancy (n.) - a love returned in full; the act of loving the one who loves you
> 
> Blue eyes and a hot caramel coffee, dusty books and an impulsive decision which could turn Dan Howell’s life on it’s head - he’s never been lucky, but perhaps his angel comes in the form of the ebony-haired librarian.

When the wind howls at the windows, threatening to burst their hinges, is when Dan's lips trace Phil's. Each movement almost tauntingly slow as his hands fist raven threads. There's a constant ache in Dan's chest that perhaps he's using Phil to heal Adam's wounds; but as his eyes count the constellations on his skin, forefinger lightly gliding across each freckle, he realises that perhaps they're meant to be.

Phil's glasses don't sit quite right and his tongue is between his lips. He sips a coffee, and Dan wonders if they ever spend time apart anymore. Three-am glances and moonlit giggles, he thinks the silver clouds and thunderstorms are insignificant now - instead he can see musty books and fairylights behind his eyelids. Kisses tasting of caramel macchiatos and cinnamon as the days drift into December (Phil's obsession with themed drinks isn't limited to Autumn, Dan learns). It's four-am inspirations and each conversation they've ever had is written on Phil's skin like the sapphire ink on daisy-white paper and Dan can't help but think Phil is just a little bit beautiful. He grows to love fairylights and spontaneous Starbucks afternoons, legs tangled up in ribbons of red and blue and ivory on feather cushions which Dan had always found uncomfortable until he'd had a distraction. Phil's hand curls in the form of poetry and with each glance Dan feels himself getting sucked into blackholes and turning into stardust as Phil's blue eyes meet his with violet smudges shadowing them, appearing darker like the navy-blue fading into ebony at dusk (just a shame no stars litter Phil's eyes).

"Your favourite colour is blue?" Dan asks as he pulls out an old record and he can't help but smile at the sepia memories of his childhood in a crystal disc.

"Surprising?" The music is loud and Phil's head is pounding and he just wants to know if Dan finds him as beautiful as he finds Dan.

"Not at all." Dan places the record back, letting the sepia smile fade from his lips before his fingers hold Phil's like they're both made of china and the stars of Orion.

Two months ago Dan wouldn't have known of blue and yellow and green eyes and crimson cheeks brushed hastily on a pale canvas, yet his lips brush Phil's cheek and he swears he hears a hitch in his breath. Each touch is barely there and neither know how long they'll last before they give in and break the porcelain facade they've spent so long creating (it'll be worth it, Dan's conscious adds).

"It's the middle of Winter and you're asking me to go on a fucking road trip with you?!" The words leave Dan's lips in a rushed daze and Phil's heart is in his ears as his eyes frantically scan Dan's for any blackholes or auroras. All he can see is rubied eyes and shaky hands and he's not even sure if it's real or if the line's blurred between reality and a dream but what even is the line? And does it even exist? Or is ot just a paradox that was never there and in sone way they're all living a dream? He nods, swallowing thickly before a chuckle escapes Dan's lips. "You know you're crazy Phil." He sits down and shakes his head, twirling the loose thread of his cream jumper between his thumb and forefinger (a nervous habit). "But to answer your question, yes." Dan replies simply, giggling as Phil's tongue is clasped between his teeth in a toothy grin. Their lips collide in an instant and it's cosmic matter exploding from a meteorite and collateral damage as their tongues meet and dazed smiles replace silent whispers of what if.

Phil's not counting the threads on the cotton sheets nor the stars sewn on the pillowcases as he throws the black suitcase in his car. Dan's head is rested on the headrest and his eyes are closed as he hums along to Hum Hallelujah. He decides Phil is thunder and he's lightening, together creating a perfect storm of ambers and cold fingers tapping on metal keys in four-am inspirations, they're three-am conversations tattooed on fallen leaves which have long faded to a dull brown from the orange they once were and false meliorism as their eyes paint the stars. Dan wishes he hadn't even gone to the fucking party in the first place but then he'd never have experienced a thunderstorm quite like this where the thunder roars and lightening flashes just enough before the rain washes it away. Phil's eyes are blue and yellow and green and even silver blackholes he never wants to escape from because his heart flutters and he feels like he's floating above the thick clouds of December. It's not quite Christmas and neither feel particularly festive as their fingers intertwine and offkey notes fall from their lips leaving a bitter aftertaste like Phil's coffee that morning (never let Dan brew a coffee half asleep, Phil adds). They can't remember the last time they were apart, perhaps it was on Tuesday when Dan's mum booked a reataurant for his brother's birthday or Thursday when Phil had to go into the library for an hour. When their hands brush it's like an explosion of silken thoughts and lace emotions which are never shared but mutually exchanged before their eyes divert in a shy glance of chocolate and blue, and Dan wonders if Phil realises how beautiful he looks in the pale moonlight of a chilly December evening. 

"Do you think it will snow?" Phil asks, voice raised hardly above a whisper as if he's afraid of destroying the crystal blue atmosphere surrounding them.

"Maybe." Dan replies as his hand holds Phil and neither can mistake the jump in their heartbeats and suddenly they're more smitten than ever as crimson swirls in the air like the curl of cigarette smoke.

Dan closes his eyes and pale parchment stained with ink is scrawled on his eyelids and he's wondering how everything's falling into place because that doesn't happen to Dan Howell. His thumb strokes Phil's absentmindedly as the hum of the engine lulls him into almost-sleep, not quite dreaming but certainly not fully awake - a sort of nubigavant purgatory.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> redamancy (n.) - a love returned in full; the act of loving the one who loves you
> 
> Blue eyes and a hot caramel coffee, dusty books and an impulsive decision which could turn Dan Howell’s life on it’s head - he’s never been lucky, but perhaps his angel comes in the form of the ebony-haired librarian.

Dan's thankful Phil's idea of a roadtrip consists of partially comfortable Travelodge beds, compensated by late night kisses tasting of tanqueray and strong coffee, igniting the same fire behind their jewelled eye as their first hesitant kiss on that chilly day in late November. Cornflower blue and ivory jumpers with sleeves pulled over crimson knuckles and days spent lazily driving through downpours, drizzle and signng offkey to every song imaginable.

Phil yearns to write of velvet whispers strewn from the most ruby tainted lips. He yearns but never writes. He blames it on his lack of vocabulary, although Dan retorts with the fact he's surrounded by books all day, and Phil guesses he's right.

Dan wonders what they are as the grey sky meets choppy waves, the sun barely shining through the layer of silver, almost as an after thought. Their hands are interlaced, for warmth Dan's subconscious adds (although that's debatable). He questions Phil's suggestion to get an ice cream but obliges with a grin as Phil's face lights up as his eyes land on the arcade across the street. He doesn't understand why he was expecting the town to be busy, perhaps since it's Cromer afterall, but he supposed it is winter and he doesn't give it much thought. The hushed crash of the waves which fill the air is partially broken as Dan chuckles at Phil's misfortune; nose coated in white from the ice cream, and he's cursing because "it's fucking freezing".

"Do you have 20p?" Phil digs in his pockets to no avail.

"I think so-" Dan hums, precariously opening his wallet to find an abundance of loose change - Phil doesn't ask how he came to aquire so much.

"Want to race me?" He instead asks, pointing to the rather old (and seemingly very much loved) car racing game.

"Sure."

Dan eventually wins, leaving a sulking Phil complaining that he'd cheated (he hadn't) and that it wasn't fair (it was, and the smile tugging at his lips only proved it further).

"I'll win you something from the claw machine, you know compensation for me cheating." Dan suggests, and before Phil could protest he'd placed 10p in the slot. Phil was more than surprised when Dan hands a small toy bear to him - almost the same shade as Dan's eyes, almost.

"I'll call it Dan, it looks like you." Phil says with a giggle.

"Does not."

"Does too, it's all cuddly."

"Fine." Dan rolls his eyes but a smirk plays on his lips. They leave the arcade hand-in-hand, high on laughter and soda, bubbling over like a glistening river of resplendent euphoria.

-

"What are we Phil?" Dan musters up the courage one night, although it's too late as Phil's snores stick to the coffee stained walls. It's okay he thinks, okay that Phil doesn't reply, it doesn't mean he's not wondering the same thing.

-

"You're stupid." Dan mumbles through a smile. Phil's hand are waving in the air, leaving the steering wheel at inconsistant intervals and Dan's sure they're going to crash - they don't.

"If you were a flower what would you be?"

Dan ponders for a minute, an unfamiliar song hummed between the distance of his fingertips. "A rose, or a nettle. A nettle counts doesn't it?"

"It's not a flower but I guess I can't argue with your flowery-wishes, besides I'm not a botanist. Why a nettle? Or rose-" It's an abrupt end with pursed lips and wide eyes.

"Because when you get too close I can hurt you I guess."

"You don't hurt me."

"I might do."

"Don't be fucking stupid Dan." It's not a sharp reply, but it certainly shifts the air to a tenser tone. "I mean, you're amazing and such a lovely person, I couldn't really see myself wothout you to be quite honest." Dan swallows, unsure of a suitable answer (although the words from last night painted scarlet are at the very tip of his tongue).

-

The sky is painted a murky grey, streaks darker than others from where the brush collected too much paint to spread evenly. Days like this the sun is hidden far amongst the clouds, and the sky barely peeks through, yet somehow Dan doesn't need the light to guide him, not when Phil's by his side and their hands are laced together in the most wonderous sense of home and comfort (Dan's not sure he'll ever want to leave). Phil kicks a pebble, shingle on the beach crunching beneath their feet and he wonders if they'll ever see any sand.

"Do you think they've heard of sand up here?" Phil kicks yet another stone, eyes watching as it falls down the edge of the shallow cliff.

"I'm sure there is some somewhere." It's a chuckle as he focusses on roll of the waves and a silent exchange of a squeeze of a hand, wrapped up in cotton wool and ivory silk.

They stay out until their skin bares goosebumps and the sun falls down on a thread, they decide sunsets are certainly more beautiful by the sea. When the sky's inked black with the moon illuminating under amber streetlamps and stars dotted like iridescent glitter, Dan's words are knotted and his tongue is tied. They're driving to god-knows-where, and Dan's conscious says he should start to worry, but he doesn't - it's something about the scent of vanilla and peonies, and adverts for fifty-percent-off sofas and dining tables which is bizarrely comforting.


End file.
